


give me liberty

by mirkandmidnight



Series: author's favorites [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Gratuitous Historical References, M/M, Multi, Pre-Slash, Revolutionary War, Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-18
Updated: 2015-10-18
Packaged: 2018-04-27 00:08:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,908
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5026006
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirkandmidnight/pseuds/mirkandmidnight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which there are revolutionaries in Grantaire's favorite bar, Montparnasse and Eponine are up to no good as usual, the merits of leather pants are discussed, and someone needs to teach Joly how to swim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	give me liberty

**Author's Note:**

  * For [samyazaz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/samyazaz/gifts).



> A/N- Oh my gosh, I am actually so excited to be writing this thing! I saw your first prompt and just went, "Welp, it looks like the time has come for me to write that weirdly specific Revolutionary War AU you've been meaning to do for like, months now." So yay!

Grantaire hates it when the revolutionaries invade his pub. They're loud. They drink too much. (Which is actually kind of funny coming from him, but hey. Whatever.) And their leader is stupidly attractive, which is completely unfair, what is this, a competition? They have to come into his pub and not only are they completely annoying, he can't even do anything about it because their main man looks like a literal avenging angel. Usually he's so irritated by their very presence that he up and leaves the second after they walk in.

Also it isn't really his pub. Like he doesn't actually own the place, there is no deed of ownership made out in his name (mostly because of the fucking stamp tax1). 

It's more of a spiritual ownership, actually.

Which doesn't make any the less real and binding, and who the hell are these guys anyway? To come into his pub (sort of) and drink too much (Ha.) and talk about politics right out in the open like there couldn't be British soldiers listening in and getting ready to arrest everyone in the building, even innocent bystanders like Grantaire, who is content to sit at the end of the bar, drinking his smuggled whiskey in peace.

He's halfway to getting stupidly drunk, fingers curled loosely around the brown glass bottle when the revolutionaries show up tonight. They immediately set up shop in the far corner of the pub, dragging tables together and passing out leaflets, talking in hushed whispers. Their leader sweeps in at the last possible second, wearing a long red coat and tying his golden hair back with a ribbon.

Maybe if Grantaire wasn't so drunk, he'd get up and leave like he normally does. But it's late, it's a Friday night and he's had too much already and he has had it with these people. Honestly, the nerve of them. So he doesn't get up. He settles into his stool, keeping his head down, and listens.

An hour later, they're still going strong at their discussion and by this point, Grantaire has had a number of realizations. Firstly, it apparently isn't enough that their leader is tall and thin, with amazingly blue eyes and the sharpest cheekbones he's ever seen, but he also has a perfect voice, one that's just ringing with passion and ideals and now all he wants to know is what this man sounds like when his voice is utterly wrecked with desire, and no, stop that Grantaire, that is not the point.

Secondly, these guys are talking about revolution and overthrowing the government and holy shit, they're not kidding. Grantaire's not stupid, he knows there's some sort of revolutionary movement going on in Boston right now, but he didn't actually believe it.

Third, the pub has completely cleared out except for him and the revolutionaries, and the only reason they're letting him stay is because it looks like he's passed out on his barstool and unable to eavesdrop or report them. (Which is really foolish of them, because anyone who knows Grantaire knows that he's always listening to what's going on. He may not look it, but he's always paying attention.)

Blondie, the leader, appears to be drawing near the end of his closing speech, and Grantaire is stifling a yawn when the trio of Redcoats bursts in through the door, muskets drawn. Everyone in the room freezes, likely treasonous pamphlets lying abandoned on tables and eyes going wide. (Predictably, the owner, Madame Hucheloup, is nowhere to be seen. She has a habit of making herself scarce in times of trouble.)

And damn, Grantaire really doesn't like the revolutionaries, but he hates the Redcoats a lot more. Taxing alcohol? That's a pretty low move.

So he does what he can. He springs off of the stool and saunters over to the closest, a petrified looking man with dark curling hair and wraps an arm around his shoulders. 

"John!" he cries, grinning at the man. It's the first name that comes to mind, can he really be blamed for this? "Brought out those old things again?" Grantaire snatches a pamphlet off the nearest table and flips through it, pursing his lips. "Really, your sister's poetry is awful."

To the man's credit, he goes along with it. "Come now...Peter, you know I have to humor the old lady if I'm ever to have a chance of getting her married off," he says, pasting a grin on his face. 

Blondie is glancing between the two of them, a perplexed (if determined) expression on his face. In the back of the room, a muscular man in workingman's clothes laughs. So Grantaire grins at him.

"How've you been, Thomas?" he asks, not even having to feign the slur to his words. He exaggerates it, certainly. "That boy of yours hasn't been giving you too much trouble, I hope."

"Thomas" nods, flashing white teeth in a smile. "Doesn't work half as much as he ought, but I do what I can to improve that."

Grantaire laughs and stumbles towards the Redcoats, who've been looking perplexedly at the entire group, as if confronted with a particularly odd form of entertainment. Like a dancing bear. Funny, but you're never quite sure why you're laughing. "Look, gentlemen," he says, smiling in the friendly fashion of the particularly inebriated. "These fellows aren't treasonous. The only thing dangerous about them is his sister's poetry!" he laughs, jerking a thumb back at the curly haired fellow. "Listen to this," Grantaire says, opening the pamphlet to a random page and miming pushing spectacles up on his nose. "Thisbe, the flowers of odious savours sweet, so hath thy breath, my dearest Thisbe dear."2 He laughs aloud. "Awful, isn't it?"

The first one smiles, and the second one actually laughs.

"Look, I feel bad for you lot, I really do," he continues, "having to run about in the middle of the night, chasing down revolutionaries and all that lot in the name of Queen and Country. So I'll do you a favor. This lot isn't dangerous, and I'm sure you've got better to do. So why don't you all head home? Come on, it's a Friday. Go on, have some fun."

They're hesitating, so Grantaire gives them one last push. He holds out his own bottle of whiskey. "Take this, why don't you? As a gift of goodwill from me to you. For all you do, enforcing the peace." The first soldier takes the bottle, nods, and the three of them head back out the door.

Grantaire waits until the door swings shut behind them, teeth bared in a rough approximation of a smile. Then he stops smiling, picks up his jacket from where it's slung across the bar, and pulls it on over his linen shirt. He turns, gives a cheerful wave to the openmouthed revolutionaries, and heads towards the door.

"Wait a minute!" One of them cries before he can leave. Grantaire sighs and turns back towards the group.

"What?" he demands, cheerful demeanor gone. "I thought we were done. I saved your asses, that's it."

Blondie steps forward, a look of grim determination on his face. "What the hell was that?" he asks. "What gave you the right to just step in like that? It's not any of your business."

"I'm sorry, I think you meant to say thank you, Grantaire, for not letting the scary British soldiers draw and quarter our little revolutionary behinds," Grantaire snaps. "Or I could call them back for you, if you'd like? Since you were clearly doing so well without my help."

"I had the situation under control," Blondie hisses, and Grantaire outright laughs.

"Oh, yes," he says. "You were the picture of control and restraint. Honestly, you should have seen your face."

The curly haired man from earlier elbows Blondie aside and extends a hand to Grantaire, a cheerful grin on his face. "I think my friend is a little shaken up," he says, "so I'd like to extend the group's thanks since Enjolras has so clearly forgotten courtesy and reason," he says pointedly, not even looking at Blondie (Enjolras?) "I'm Courfeyrac. And you are?"

Grantaire takes Courfeyrac's hand grudgingly. "Call me R," he says, still not sure he wants to give his real name to a group as radical as this one, no matter how well mannered some of them may be.

Courfeyrac beams. "It's excellent to meet you, R. I'll introduce you around."

"Are you sure that's wise?" Enjolras interjects, pinching the bridge of his nose in sheer exasperation.

Courfeyrac doesn't even look at him. "He lied to a group of British soldiers for us, Enjolras, I think we can do him the courtesy of telling him our names." Enjolras waves a hand dismissively.

"Anyway!" The other man takes a hold of Grantaire's jacket sleeve and begins tugging him around the room to different people. "This is Combeferre. He works for a newspaper in Boston."

Combeferre adjusts his glasses with ink stained fingers and gives a wry smile. "I enjoyed the Shakespeare," he says.

Next, he meets Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta. "Bossuet just got his freedom papers," Courfeyrac explains, "and he's working on getting some for Musichetta. And Joly's a doctor, so he's helping them out a bit."

Courfeyrac introduces him to Feuilly next, the tall workingman he'd spoken to earlier. Feuilly is a laborer down at the docks, and works for a local fisherman. After that, he meets Jehan Prouvaire, the one who writes all their pamphlets, then Bahorel, a muscular black man with two gold teeth.

He next points out a gangly man with red hair and an overabundance of freckles. "That's Marius," Courfeyrac whispers. "We haven't been able to get anything sensible out of him in two hours. He's in love, apparently." Grantaire tries to nod understandingly, sure he's failing miserably.

"And that's Enjolras," Courfeyrac finishes, pointing at their leader. "The leader of our merry band of ragtag revolutionaries."

"Courfeyrac, volume?" Combeferre comments mildly. "I'll remind you that we were just invaded by British soldiers and only just managed to escape.

Courfeyrac looks suitably chastened. "Sorry," he mutters. 

Which is how Grantaire makes friends with a bunch of crackpot revolutionaries.  
***  
Montparnasse surveys the open road from his place at the base of a tree and adjusts the angle of his tricorn until it is just so. It wouldn't to commit a crime looking less than his best, would it? If there was one thing Montparnasse prides himself on, it is his ability to look high society while committing acts that would make lesser men shudder with revulsion. 

A moment later, Eponine drops soundlessly down from the branches of the tree, compacting her dearly bought telescope. 

"Well?" Montparnasse asks. He does not look at her. He does not need to. 

"Carriage on the way," she says. "Looks nice. One horse, well bred, and a footman in livery. Shouldn't give us too much trouble." Eponine grins. "Ready, boss?"

"Have I ever told you how irredeemably bloodthirsty you are?" Montparnasse comments. Eponine shakes her head in response.

"Is it a problem?"

He glances over at her. "On the contrary. It's one of your best qualities."

She gives a mock gasp, raising a grimy hand to her mouth. "Sir! I'm flattered."

"Oh, do be quiet," he grumbles. "They'll hear us and then you'll have no food for the next three days.

But Eponine, true to form, ignores him. "So where are Guelemer and Babet?" she asks, leaning against the trunk of the oak. "Didn't figure Sous would come, in any case."

He tilts his head. "Babet has a client tonight, and Guelemer is helping him with that." Montparnasse pauses, hesitant to ask. "I'm surprised you don't ask where your father is. No loyalty from you, eh?" He tries to keep his tone light and teasing.

Eponine laughs, but it's tinged with bitterness and something close to vulnerability. Montparnasse wouldn't believe it had he not witnessed it. "As if I'd be loyal to that scum," she sneers. "No, sir, you should expect no loyalty from me. I am coldhearted, petty, and vindictive. I owe nothing to anyone, and I am happy like this." She takes his hand. "I thank myself every day I am away from him."

"Careful, I've got a knife out," Montparnasse says mildly.3

She smiles an enigmatic smile. "You must have a little faith in people, Parnasse." Then the creaking of carriage wheels catches their attention. The carriage Eponine noticed is almost upon them, and they scramble into their places.

Eponine races into the road, clutching at her arms and weeping, as the carriage screeches to halt to avoid hitting her. As the footman leaps from the seat to assist her, Montparnasse strides toward the doors, long coat flapping behind him, and flings them open. He pulls twin pistols from his hips and aims one at the man inside, the other at the footman. But Eponine has him already, an arm wrapped around his neck and a knife pressed to his throat.

Montparnasse smiles his most charming smile and studies the two passengers. He has a pistol at the temple of a young man about his own age, with red hair and masses of freckles made abundantly clear by his now pale face. His suit is shabby, with clear signs of mending. Not important. He looks to the other passenger, an older man with excellent clothes and a gold handled cane. Montparnasse recognizes him on sight.

"M. Gillenormand," he says, giving an exaggerated bow. "How excellent to see you. I didn't know you were still alive." He pitches his words so that Eponine can hear them clearly. She laughs aloud.

"Gillenormand?" she says. "Really?" And he's not surprised at her shock. M. Gillenormand is one of the richest men in Boston, and also one of the most corrupt. He's most likely had a hand in every new law from Parliament, and Montparnasse doesn't feel the least bit of guilt stealing from him.

Well. Not that he would normally, but he feels a distinct amount of pleasure from robbing this man. It's just so satisfying to see the rich brought low.

"And who's your company?" he asks, grinning like the cat that ate the canary. 

"My grandson," Gillenormand glares, and Eponine freezes. "Marius Pontmercy."

Montparnasse notices, certainly, but there's nothing to be done about it now. "And what might you be doing this evening? It's a bit late for a social engagement. Heading out to see all your Loyalist friends, I'd wager, from that getup." He waves a hand. "Not that I care about your political leanings from a moral standpoint. Morals are annoying things, and I do my best to be free of them." Both of them stay perfectly still, and Montparnasse sighs. Right. This is getting boring.

"Well!" he says. "Hand over any valuables in the carriage please. I'll want your cane, please, and the watch." Montparnasse gestures with the pistol at the aforementioned items.

At this, the grandson looks up. "Please," Marius Pontmercy says, "take what you want, but leave my grandfather his cane. He is an old man, sir, he needs it to walk."

All of Montparnasse's good cheer vanishes, and his face stills. The pistol comes back up to rest at Pontmercy's temple, and the other man swallows hard. "Did I ask you, rich boy?" He clicks his tongue. "Hand the goods over, please, and no one gets hurt tonight."

The two men hand over everything valuable in the carriage, although Montparnasse has to pluck the gold handled cane from Pontmercy's grip. Montparnasse gets a few papers from them, which he puts into his pocket. He grins and tips his hat, reholstering his pistols and holding onto the door. "Pleasure doing business with you," Montparnasse says, and slams the door shut.

The footman climbs back onto the carriage, and they're off. Montparnasse watches the carriage clatter away, a thoughtful expression on his face. "You know Pontmercy, then?" he asks. It's phrased like a question, but they both know it isn't. "How?"

"None of your business," she shoots back.

"Doesn't matter, I'll figure it out." He holds up the loot. "I'm going to sell this lot. Want to come?"

"Nah," she says, looking back at the carriage. "I have things to do. And I trust you."

"First mistake," he says lightly, swinging up onto his horse and riding back towards Boston.  
***  
Bahorel is not a man of many words. Still, when Montparnasse arrives at his shop with a lot that could only have come from his illegal nightly exploits, he thinks it warrants some sort of exclamation. He raises an eyebrow. "How'd you get this stuff?" he asks, turning over a finely made silver watch in his hands.

Montparnasse's lips quirk into a wry smile. "You have to ask?" He leans in close. "Tell your revolutionary friends that Gillenormand visited some Loyalists last night. Obviously I don't know what they talked about, but, you know."

Bahorel nods. "Thanks."

"So what can I get for this stuff?" he asks.

Bahorel digs through the stuff. The best piece is the watch, although there are some other good pieces here. "Don't take less than 30 for the watch, or 50 for the lot," he says.

"Thanks," Montparnasse replies, and winks on his way out.  
***  
The next meeting is pandemonium. Not even because of Grantaire (although he's actually invited this time, which is new), but because of something with Marius's grandfather, Gillenormand. Grantaire tries not to get in the middle of it. He just stays in the back of the bar and cracks jokes with Joly and Bossuet, and their shared (?) mistress, Musichetta.

Whatever floats their boat. Grantaire's certainly not in a position to judge, as he's doing his best to simultaneously catch the attention and avoid being in the bad graces of Enjolras. He's seen him tear into a known Loyalist in the street. It wasn't pretty. Poor Combeferre had to console the man so he wouldn't do anything drastic.

Grantaire pulls a pad of paper (smuggled, shhh) out of his satchel, along with a stubby pencil, and sets to sketching, which apparently must be the most distracting thing Enjolras has ever seen, because he immediately sighs.

"We were discussing the upcoming revolution, if you weren't too busy to join us," he comments.

Grantaire looks up from his paper and meets Enjolras's eyes, smirking. This is probably a bad idea. This is almost definitely a bad idea. He stretches. "Yeah, but what's even the point?" he asks.

Enjolras sputters. "The point?" he demands. "Freedom isn't enough for you?" 

He shrugs. "Well, yes, freedom's nice and all that, but it won't last long. Power corrupts, Apollo," he drawls. "Even if you remove a bad system of power, the next one will inevitably be as bad, if not worse than the last. Why not keep to stability?"

"Did you just call him Apollo?" Joly interrupts, and Grantaire looks pained.

"It slipped," he says. "I read, I know Greek myth."

"So that's it?" Enjolras interjects. "We should all just give up on hope, is that what you're saying?"

He snaps and points at Enjolras. "Now you're talking. Hope is idiotic. Keeps people from realizing their limits, and makes them miserable."

"You believe in nothing," he says wonderingly.

"Damn right," Grantaire replies.

"Anyway," Joly interjects, looking up from his medical book. "Let's get on with things, shall we? Some of us don't have all day to sit around arguing." Enjolras shoots a final glare at Grantaire, who returns a wicked grin.

"Quite right, Joly," Enjolras says. "How foolish of us to be distracted by a minor annoyance when we have so much to do."

The smile on Grantaire's suddenly strains, and he leans back in his seat, waving a hand. "Carry on," he says. "Wouldn't want to interrupt." The last few words are sharp, even more so than usual for him. 

Joly looks concerned at this, but Enjolras is already gone, buried deep in conversation with Combeferre, Courfeyrac, Feuilly, and Jehan. He clears his throat, and Grantaire raises an eyebrow. "What's the matter?"

"Are you all right?" he asks. 

Grantaire smirks. "Why wouldn't I be?" His voice is cheerful, but his eyes are dark.

Bossuet plops next to them and groans. His clothes drip onto the table, threatening Joly's book and Grantaire's sketchpad with imminent destruction. The two recoil reflexively, Grantaire shoving his sketchpad into his bag and Joly pulls his book into his lap.

"What happened to you?" Joly says, fussing over Bossuet with tender concern. He starts prodding at Bossuet's limbs, clearly probing for evidence of injuries.

"Fell into the harbor," the other man replies, taking off his boots and dumping the water inside onto the floor. "Why, what's going on with you all?"

"On accident?" Joly asks.

"No, he decided he fancied a swim in late September and leapt in," Grantaire deadpans.

Bossuet slaps Joly's hands away gently. "It wasn't even that bad," he says. "I don't think those soldiers would have even pushed me in-"

"If you hadn't been one of us?" Joly says angrily. "You can't just let this keep happening, Bossuet. I know you have bad luck, but if these people are harassing you-" but he's cut off by the other man pressing a finger to his lips.

"Joly. I can take care of myself, really."

"Clearly, you can't!"

Grantaire clears his throat, but neither of them are listening to him. He sighs. He's gotten to know these two rather well recently, and they've never been out of temper before. Grantaire likes them. They're funny, and they're willing to believe him when he doesn't want to talk about something. So maybe this is to blame for his kicking his feet up onto the table and getting Enjolras's attention.

No, no, what are you doing, his subconscious screams, but by that point it's too late, and Enjolras has looked up from his conversation, raising an eyebrow at Grantaire's antics. "What?" he says.

Grantaire jerks a thumb over his shoulder at Bossuet. "It appears that while you've been debating ethics and politics and the like in a very hypothetical way," he doesn't say cowardly, he doesn't because that would open doors he would like to remain very firmly closed, "the British have gone and assaulted one of yours." He folds his arms and grins. "What're you going to do about it, Apollo?"

Enjolras's gaze flicks to Bossuet, who is bickering amiably with Joly. "Bossuet," he calls, and the other man looks up. "Is this true? Were you attacked?"

Bossuet stares him down. "It was nothing serious," he says, "I just fell into the harbor."

"He was pushed," Grantaire interjects, "by a few Redcoats." He gives Enjolras a challenging stare, as if daring him to do nothing, daring him not to live up to the standards he's preached every time they've seen each other.

Enjolras nods. "We will see this answered," he says, and that is an end of it for the time being.

A moment later, a slight girl with dark, choppy hair, wearing a long coat appears in the center of the room, slouched against a table. Grantaire says she appears because he doesn't see or hear her enter the room; she is simply there, when she was not moments ago.

Bahorel stands, flashing his gold teeth. "Eponine," he rumbles. "Nice to see you."

"How did you get in here?" Combeferre asks mildly.

Eponine blinks. "There's a hole in the roof," she replies, as though it is the most natural thing in the world for her to have crept in through the roof. How she even got up there, Grantaire does not want to know.

Combeferre nods. "What do you have?"

The girl walks over to Grantaire's table and picks up his bottle. He makes a protesting noise, but a glare from Enjolras shuts him up. She takes a long swig, sniggering at him around the mouth of the bottle, then sets it back down on the table. Eponine leans against the back of his chair, resting her elbow on top of his head. He rolls his eyes. "Haven't got much," she says. "I've heard that there'll be even more taxes coming through in the next few months, but that's nothing new. The main thing is that a friend of mine recently held up a prominent member of Boston society," Eponine pauses, eyes flicking to Marius, "who was apparently on the way to a gathering of known Loyalists. I may or may not have gotten some papers from him." She reaches into her coat and tosses a packet of papers at Enjolras, who catches them and flips through them quickly.

"Well?" Eponine asks. "Are they important?"

Enjolras looks up and gives her a nod.

At that moment, someone clears their throat. All eyes flick to the source of the sound, a well dressed young man, handsome, wearing a top hat over his inky hair. He's wearing a tightly fitted black suit and is too ridiculously leggy for words. Anyone else would look ridiculous. He looks intimidating.

Eponine sighs and nods at the man. "Hello, Montparnasse," she says.

"How'd you get in here?" Feuilly asks.

Montparnasse shrugs. "Hole in the ceiling. You should really fix that."

"Is this the night of unexpected visitors?" Courfeyrac exclaims. "Is that was this is?" Grantaire doesn't know. Grantaire doesn't particularly care, except that if this girl doesn't get her arm off his head he might have to throw something.

Montparnasse strolls forward, rolling his eyes, and snatches the papers out of Enjolras's hands. "Not to interrupt, but I believe those are mine, little brother."

"Little brother?" Courfeyrac echoes.

Enjolras and Montparnasse give him withering looks in unison. "I'm not your little brother," Enjolras says crossly. "We're the same age, you idiot. Just because you're a hardened criminal and couldn't figure out how to appease Mother-"

"What makes you think I even wanted to appease Mother?" Montparnasse retorts. "And I was going to give you these silly things anyway, except Eponine seems to have stolen them from me, which, if I'm honest, was more than I was expecting of her."

Eponine grins. "Always the tone of surprise."

Montparnasse continues as if the interruption hadn't even occurred, "but it appears she's beaten me to it this once."

Courfeyrac raises a hand. "I'm confused." Murmurs of agreement echo around the room, and Enjolras sighs. 

"Honestly. How do you lot think we get our information about the affiliations of the Loyalists? Through this idiot and his merry band of thieves."

"We're called the Patron Minette," Montparnasse adds irritably.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure we're all very impressed," his brother continues. "The point is that we have a bit of the criminal underworld working with us."

"Not so sure about working with you," Eponine interrupts. "More like we tolerate you all, and taxes are irritating even when you don't pay them."

"Yes, thank you for that clarification," Enjolras says.

"Staying for the rest of the meeting, Parnasse?" Eponine asks.

He rolls his eyes and balances against the back of a chair. "Hardly likely. I have things to be doing, you know. I can't just hang around here all day."

"Ah, yes, because you're doing so much right now," Eponine deadpans, and is rewarded for her efforts with an elbow in the side. "I retract my statement."

Enjolras nods. "Right, thank you both. If you're going to stay, please have a seat. If you're not going to stick around, you could take it outside." Eponine and Montparnasse share a momentary glance, then head out the door together.

"But back to Bossuet," Combeferre interjects, apparently oblivious to the way Bossuet groans and rests his head in his hands.

"I'm telling you all, I'm fine," he says.

"Shut up, Bossuet," Grantaire and Joly say in unison.  
***  
They meet at Boston Harbor the next afternoon, arriving in pairs and small groups. No one walks alone, including Grantaire, who'd met up with Joly, Bossuet, and Feuilly for coffee.4 He's finding, surprisingly, that most of the members of Les Amis are people he wouldn't mind spending more time with.

Enjolras is, of course, the first one there. Grantaire doesn't know whether to be impressed or irritated with his chipper morning demeanor, especially since they were all up til the wee hours of the morning the night before at the Musain.

"So what do we do now?" Courfeyrac asks, giving Enjolras an opening to explain.

"Here's the plan," he says. "We're pretty much known to be rebelling against the crown, and I'm fairly certain that we'll be recognized on sight. We will not do anything to the soldiers," he jerked his chin at the line of men in red coats standing around in the plaza. "Our job is to cause a bit of a disturbance, just to see what they do."

Grantaire raises a hand. "So we're pretty much here to fuck things up, just for the sake of your curiosity."

Enjolras sighs. "Yes. I suppose we rather are."

Feuilly interrupts. "The plan is to start a riot? Sorry, but that doesn't sound like the best of ideas."

At this point, Combeferre speaks up. "This may be dangerous, and we of course do not want to force anyone into doing anything they don't want to. So if you wish, you don't have to take part in this, and we will not judge you for it." He looks around the group. "Anyone?"

No one says a word.

Enjolras rubs his hands together, while Combeferre smiles. "Excellent," the blond man says. "Now, let's get going."

They take to the streets, crowding in the center of the plaza and starting vague, discontented rumblings. Grantaire hears Feuilly talking to people passing, and sees Bahorel huddled in conversation with Marius and Eponine. As he glances around the plaza, he catches a glimpse of Montparnasse, leaning up against the side of a building, hat tilted just so. The other winks and holds a finger to his lips, and Grantaire grins in reply.

When he turns back, Courfeyrac and Enjolras are gesticulating wildly at one another, Bahorel is shouting at Feuilly, and quite a number of strangers have joined the crowd, all looking as angry as Les Amis themselves. Joly and Bossuet are sticking close together at the edge of the group, only ten feet away from the edge of the harbor. Across the plaza, the militia are looking rather on edge. They're gripping their muskets and bayonets tightly, and Grantaire sees a few of them look at their commanding officer questioningly. The man, clearly in charge, shakes his head.

Normally, Grantaire wouldn't do anything about this. He doesn't make a habit of antagonizing the local occupying force. It isn't good for his reputation. Not that he really cares about that, either, but sometimes it's nice not to have people look at you like you're a criminal. He rolls his eyes, and starts pushing his way through the crowd towards Combeferre, who seems like he's probably the voice of reason in the group. A thick set man gets in his way, so after a concerted effort to be polite, Grantaire is forced to push him out of the way. Damn it, he doesn't have time for this.

The man goes to the ground and Grantaire is pretty sure he only elbowed him gently, but hey, whatever works for him.

Of course, this is the moment the British decide to properly get themselves together and do something about the near riot starting in the streets. They all look at their captain, who nods once and blows a whistle. They charge forward, and Grantiaire has only a second to say, "Oh, hell," before he's being shoved back by a massive press of bodies.

Across the crowd, he hears a loud splash, and then suddenly Bossuet's yelling. Grantaire dodges around people as he fights his way towards Bossuet and Joly, narrowly avoiding several elbows and a fist. However, his luck doesn't hold, as is usual, and he ends up taking an elbow to the face that send him reeling backwards. He struggles to his feet and eventually makes it to where Bossuet stands at the edge of the harbor, staring into the water with a look of horror on his face.

“Where's Joly?” Grantaire has to shout to be heard over the noise of the crowd.

Bossuet looks over as if noticing him for the first time. “He fell in,” Bossuet adds, then his face crumples. “Neither of us can swim.”

Grantaire pats him on the back reassuringly and pulls his shirt over his head. If he's going into the water, his shirt at least should remain unharmed. “Be right back,” he tells Bossuet, and leaps into the water.

His first thought is that damn, Boston Harbor is pretty fucking freezing. He's shivering and he's only been in the water a few seconds, tops. His second thought is that this water is really murky, which is not exactly helpful for his rescue efforts. Grantaire sighs heavily and ducks under, forcing his eyes open as he searches through the gloom for Joly.

He comes up for breath after a minute, gasping for air, and goes down for a second attempt. Grantaire is just about to come up again when he gets a firm elbow to the side that knocks all the breath out of him. Probably not a fish, he thinks wryly, and grabs hold of Joly's arms, kicking furiously for the surface. It's certainly not easy, with Joly flailing about wildly, but he manages somehow. They reach the surface, both of them gasping for breath, and Grantaire manages to pull them both to the edge where Bossuet heaves Joly out of the water. Grantaire pulls himself out and lays on the cobbles for a moment, trying to get his breath back. Next to him, Joly coughs up more water than Grantaire would have thought possible.

He's more than content to just keep laying there, but unfortunately that doesn't seem to be an option. Grantaire's belief in this is confirmed when a gun goes off somewhere, and the crowd roars. He gets to his feet as quickly as he can.

“We need to get out of here,” Bossuet says, and hauls Joly to his feet, slinging Joly's arm over his shoulders. Grantaire looks around, trying to see anyone else from their group, but he can't spot any of them. He nods, but then his eyes catch on a familiar head of blond hair and a red coat.

“You two go on,” he says, waving a hand at them. “I'll be along in a minute, just need to take care of something.”

Bossuet laughs sharply. “In the middle of a riot? Are you crazy?”

He sighs. “Enjolras is still here. Now both of you, get out of here.” Not waiting to see if they obey, Grantaire pushes his way towards Enjolras, ducking past waving hands and clenched fists. Enjolras is, of course, at the center of the crowd, arguing loudly with another man over the body of an older man5. Both men look to be getting out of control, and Grantaire winces as the other man takes a swing at Enjolras. The blow connects soundly with his nose. A steady trickle of blood starts from Enjolras's nose, and he's going to have some lovely bruises later. 

Grantaire rolls his eyes. He doesn't have time for this. He shoves through the crowd, ending up behind the man who threw the punch. He taps him on the shoulder, and punches him when he turns around. The man falls to the ground, and Grantaire grabs onto Enjolras's arm, dragging him towards a side street.

“What are you doing?” Enjolras yells.

“What does it look like?” Grantaire replies, then notices the two soldiers pointing and starting towards them. “Uh oh,” he mutters, “time to run.” He breaks into a sprint, pulling Enjolras with him, and they dash off onto a side street, the soldiers in hot pursuit.

“They're following us,” Enjolras pants.

“I'd noticed, thanks,” Grantaire says through gritted teeth, and ducks down an alley. They keep running until Enjolras rips his arm out of Grantaire's grip and stops.

“Enough,” he says. “They can't still be following us.” He considers. “Where are we?”

Grantaire looks around them. He likes to consider himself a veritable expert on Boston, and all its secret streets and maze-like neighborhoods, but the buildings around them are completely unfamiliar to him. “I have no idea,” he says, as if he's commenting on the weather.

Enjolras straightens, staring him dead in the eyes. “What do you mean you have no idea? I thought you knew where we were going!”

“Obviously, so did I,” Grantaire snaps, “but I didn't anticipate we were going to be followed.”

“Well, what do you propose we do about it?” Enjolras asks, throwing out his hands.

Grantaire mimics the gesture mockingly. “Hell if I know, but it's getting dark and I don't particularly want to be hanging around here all night.” He looks around at the surrounding buildings, which are in varying states of disrepair. People are beginning to come out of them, looking thin and hungry. Boston has a wild night life, and it's not the kind he thinks Enjolras would enjoy.

Basically, it's getting dark and they're lost in the bad part of town. Excellent.

Someone clears their throat apologetically from behind Grantaire, and he whips around to see Montparnasse. 

“Far be it from me to interrupt your little lovers' quarrel,” he says, “but what are you two doing here?”

Grantaire is pretty sure that Enjolras has never looked so relieved to see someone, which, yeah, sort of stings a little.

“What are you doing here, Parnasse?” he asks.

“I live here.”

“Oh.”

“See, this all comes down to the fact that you never come and visit me, little brother,” he replies cheerfully. “If you took the time to come and visit your favorite sibling, you'd know where I live and then you wouldn't have gotten lost, would you?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “Wasn't my fault,” he mutters. 

“Don't care,” Montparnasse replies, then starts walking away. He turns back to look at the pair of them quizzically. “Well? Aren't you coming? I assume you want to go back to your quaint little cafe, whatever it's called.”

Enjolras and Grantaire glance at each other, then set off after the quickly disappearing criminal. 

As they walk, Grantaire can't help but think that if there's anyone in Boston who might know the city better than he does, it's Montparnasse. He leads them down deserted alleys, across rooftops, and through buildings Grantaire would never enter on his own. Even more disconcerting is the fact that he seems to know everyone, stopping frequently to greet a passerby. Even more disconcerting than that is the way people subconsciously move out of the way to make a path for him.

Finally, though, they end up at the Musain, and Montparnasse stops just short of the door. He lets Enjolras through, but leans across the doorway so Grantaire can't pass. He takes a long moment to study Grantaire, and he has to force himself to make eye contact.

Montparnasse nods, finally. “My brother can be reckless at times. Do try to keep him out of too much trouble, will you?”

Grantaire gives him an odd look. “I'd try but I'm pretty sure he hates me.”

He lets out a laugh. “Please. I know what hate on Enjolras looks like. You're not even close to that.  
it a favor to me.”

“I don't even know you, why should I do you any favors?”

The other man shrugs. “You care.”

Grantaire snorts. “I really don't.”

Montparnasse winks. “Sure you do.” Then he moves out of the doorway and sets off down the street, whistling and twirling a knife with his fingertips. Grantaire doesn't say a word, just watches him go.

“How odd,” he says, and goes into the cafe.  
***  
And because Enjolras never does anything by halves, it doesn't end there. Because it's apparently not enough to stir up the people to riot. Apparently you also have to print highly seditious pamphlets using a stolen printing press in the back room as well.8 

Grantaire could just shake him sometimes. Combeferre too, for actually making his crackpot ideas happen in real life. Some things shouldn't actually happen, you know? Some things should just stay odd and illegal ideas that you think about sometimes but don't actually do anything about. 

Of course, he's finding that none of Les Amis are actually sensible people so really, why is he even surprised?

They spend meetings focusing solely on the pamphlets. Enjolras writes them (of course) and Feuilly knows a man with a printing press, and he also knows Montparnasse's friends, so voila, the printing appears one day with a bow tied to it. Grantaire has his suspicions. 

Anyway, Combeferre edits them, and Grantaire somehow got roped into getting the ink for this project (which actually took more time than one would think, because he's not the type to do anything by halves either), and the rest of them help to distribute. They're being published under a pseudonym, but Grantaire's fairly certain that anyone with a brain and a working set of eyes will know who's doing this.

He says as much when he's out with Joly, Bossuet, and a friend (lover?) of theirs, Musichetta. The three of them have become fast friends, and it's not uncommon to find them sitting in a corner together at the Musain, sharing out a bottle of wine. That's another thing. Now that he's hanging around a bunch revolutionaries, Grantaire hasn't been drinking nearly as much. Because really, if they're going to insist upon risking their lives, he's going to have to try and prevent that as much as possible. These people are his friends, and if he has to start drinking less to try and help, that's what he'll do. It's not easy, who's he kidding, but he's starting to think that it's worth it.

The four of them are out looking at leather trousers (why, Grantaire's not sure, and at this point he's a little afraid to ask. He likes Joly and Bossuet. He doesn't need to know about their sex lives.) and Bossuet is looking doubtfully at a fawn colored pair when Joly's head pops up and he looks out the window. 

“Isn't that Combeferre?” he asks. They all look out the window at that and yes, Combeferre is walking down the street, Courfeyrac towing him along by one sleeve and Enjolras following a few paces behind. Joly dashes out the door of the shop, shoelaces flopping. The other three follow, Grantaire trailing behind. 

Joly and Combeferre have struck up an enthusiastic conversation, which isn't surprising considering that they're both studying medicine. Courfeyrac starts talking to Bossuet and Musichetta, leaving Grantaire and Enjolras looking at each other awkwardly.

Enjolras steps forward decisively. “This is ridiculous,” he says. “I'm sure we can carry on a conversation while they're talking to each other.”

Grantaire narrows his eyes. “Who said we couldn't?”

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says dourly, “has a bet going with Feuilly.”

“Well, what shall we talk about?” he says. “Hate to give to Courfeyrac a reason to laugh, right?”

Enjolras looks at his feet. “I don't know. I don't think you'd be terribly interested in hearing about the next pamphlet we're publishing.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “And why is that? Just because I complain about your methods doesn't mean I don't want to hear about my friends' ideas.”

“We're your friends?”

“No, I only hang around because you're liberal with the alcohol,” Grantaire deadpans. “Honestly, Enjolras, do you think I'd have stuck around so long if I didn't like you all? I could have turned you in ages ago if I wanted to.”

“Somehow I don't find that terribly encouraging,” Enjolras replies.

Grantaire shrugs. “If that's how you want to feel about it, I can't stop you. So tell me about this pamphlet.”

Enjolras opens his mouth, then glances around. “Where'd they go?” he asks. Grantaire turns and looks around, and the others seem to have disappeared.

He sighs and looks at Enjolras. “This seems to be a theme for us,” he says, and rubs at the back of his neck.

Enjolras groans. “This is fine. Really. I just needed to get something done, is all, and Combeferre has something I need for it.” He glares. “This is your fault.”

“How is this my fault?” Grantaire snaps, holding his arms out from his sides. “You were the one who wanted to talk in the first place.” His gaze lights on a little girl standing in the street, looking lost. “Just wait here a minute,” he says. “Got to do something.” He heads for the little girl, Enjolras following a few steps behind (because he never listens, does he?)

Grantaire stops a few feet away from the child. “Where are your parents?” he asks, not unkindly.

The girl looks up at him. “Don't have any,” she says. “I'm Azelma.”

He kneels so he's at her level. “Nice to meet you, Azelma. My name's R, and this is Enjolras over here. Don't mind him, he's fairly useless at this sort of thing.” Grantaire gestures behind him at where Enjolras is standing. “What're you doing out here all by yourself?”

“'M not alone,” Azelma says. “My sister's here, but I can't find her, and she said to stay right here.”

Grantaire glances back at Enjolras, who's scowling, and sticks his tongue out. Enjolras's face turns a very interesting shade of red that he'll think about later, but right now he's got more pressing matters to deal with. “What's your sister called?” he asks.

“Ep,” Azelma says, and looks at Grantaire hopefully. “Do you know her? She's got a friend called Parnasse, and they work together sometimes, and Parnasse has some friends called Babet and Sous and Guelemer that I'm not supposed to know about, so don't say anything about them to her, please.”

Enjolras takes a few steps forward. “Your sister is Eponine Thenardier?” he demands, grabbing her shoulder. Grantaire pushes his hand off, because all of a sudden Azelma looks as if she's about to flee in panic. 

“You're scaring her,” he snaps. “Go away.” Enjolras takes a step back, and Grantaire smiles at Azelma. “Is your sister Eponine Thenardier?”

Azelma nods and glares at Enjolras. “Does he know her?”

“Only a little,” Grantaire replies. “Well. That makes things much easier.” He stands and hoists Azelma onto his shoulders, so her head is high above the crowd. “Do you see her?”

She points towards the other side of the street. “Over there.” Grantaire starts walking in the direction of her finger, motioning for Enjolras to follow. On the other side of the street, he sees Eponine pacing back and forth, a hand in her hair, and Montparnasse nearby, looking just as concerned.

“I told you this wasn't a good idea, but did you listen? No, of course you didn't,” Eponine snaps. 

Montparnasse makes a pacifying gesture. “Ep. It's going to be fine, she's going to be fine, I swear. She probably just wandered off to look at something, and she'll be back in just a minute.”

“That doesn't make me feel any better,” she hisses. “You are not doing a very good job of this, Parnasse.” Eponine spits the last word like a curse.

Grantaire stops a few feet in front of them, Enjolras at his side. “Um,” he says. “I think this might belong to you?”

Eponine looks up at Grantaire, and then up at Azelma on his shoulders, and all the tension drains from her body. Grantaire gets Azelma down from his shoulders and sets her on the ground. “Thank god,” Eponine says. “Azelma! What have I told you about wandering away? I was so worried about you!”

“Sorry, Ep,” Azelma says. “But I made some friends, and I rode on R's shoulders.” 

Eponine looks up at Grantaire and studies him carefully. “Yes,” she says, “I see that.” She gives him an approving nod. “Thanks for bringing her back,” she says. Montparnasse nods, a slow smile spreading over his face as he notes who Grantaire is with.

“Well!” Enjolras exclaims, far too cheerfully. “We won't keep you, I have things to do and I'm sure you do as well. Come along, Grantaire.” He grabs Grantaire's sleeve and practically drags him off, stopping a block away when Grantaire rips his sleeve from Enjolras's grip.

“What was that about?” he demands.

“My idiot brother was practically leering at you, do you really think I'm going to let him just do that to a friend?” Enjolras replies.

Grantaire grins. “Why, Enjolras, I didn't realize you cared that much about me. You have defended my honor most gallantly, kind sir,” he mocks. 

Enjolras rolls his eyes and shoves Grantaire's shoulder. “There's no call to be so obnoxious about it.”

“You like me,” Grantaire says wonderingly. “You said I'm your friend.” He grins delightedly. “What will Courfeyrac say now?”

“I suppose you're all right,” Enjolras says. “You're irritating, and you always contradict me in meetings, but I suppose you're all right.”

Grantaire puts a hand over his heart. “You'd better stop now, Enjolras, my ego might never recover from such compliments as 'I suppose you're all right'.”

“Shut up,” he says, but there's no heat in it, and Grantaire grins.  
***  
The next he hears from Enjolras is at 2 in the morning, when a sudden pounding starts at his door, startling him out of sleep and making him nearly fall out of bed. “What?” he shouts as he untangles himself from the sheets. “I'm coming, I'm coming.”

He stumbles to the front door and opens it, rubbing blearily at his eyes. “What is it?” he asks.

On the other side of the door is Enjolras, who looks just as tired as he does. Grantaire doesn't say anything for a long moment, just stands there looking at him. Enjolras looks right back. “Why are you here?” Grantaire finally asks.

“Got kicked out of my rooms,” Enjolras says. “Landlady took exception to my being so entirely obvious about my dangerous republican leanings.”

“Okay,” Grantaire says, “But why are you here?”

"Courfeyrac is already sharing with Marius, Combeferre is living with his family, Joly and Bossuet can't take any more people, and Feuilly and Bahorel share. You're the only person I know who lives alone and I need a place to stay for a little while." Enjolras folds his arms over his chest. "Can I stay here?"

"It's two in the goddamn morning," Grantaire says, leaning against the doorframe. "You aren't giving me much motivation to say yes."

Enjolras rakes a hand through his hair. "Please."

He rolls his eyes. "Fine, my god. Just don't touch my things and we'll be fine." Grantaire steps out of the doorway and heads back into his rooms. Enjolras follows slowly, looking around curiously. 

"Now," Grantaire says. "I am going back to sleep. You can take the bed, I'll be fine on the couch until you find something else."

Enjolras takes a step forward. "That's ridiculous. You live here, I'm not going to take your bed from you."

"Yeah, well, I'm not about to make a guest sleep on the couch."

He huffs. "Fine. We're both grownups, we'll just have to share."

Grantaire looks at him, just looks at him. "People will talk. People will most definitely talk." It's not that people will talk. Grantaire had long ago accepted that the female form, while having its advantages, really did not do anything for him. It's just that he thinks spending the night with Enjolras laying next to him for the foreseeable future just might drive him insane.

"I really don't care," Enjolras sniffs. And what is Grantaire meant to say to that? It's not as if he can just say, 'Oh yeah, and by the way, I'm very much attracted to you even though you're one of the most irritating people I've ever met, what the hell is this, so if you could just not come near me for the rest of my life, that'd be great.' Yeah. He can see how well that would go over, and it would probably end with pain.

"Fine," Grantaire says, because he really can't see any way out of this. It's not like it can possible be that bad, right? It'll be fine.  
***  
Grantaire is wrong. It's hell. It's not even the fact that he's completely unable to get any sleep, instead laying awake and staring at the wall with his eyes wide open. It's not that. It's that Enjolras is a cuddler. As soon as he drops off, he starts seeking out alternate sources of warmth, the only one being Grantaire. So Grantaire's laying there in the bed, with Enjolras pressed up against him, arms wrapped around his chest and face buried in his shoulder.

And it's not like Grantaire can just wake him up and ask him to move over, because wouldn't that just be the most awkward conversation ever? So he just sort of lays there, and somehow, eventualy drifts off to sleep.

When he wakes up, his nose is about two inches from Enjolras's, the sheets are tangled irredeemably, and they've become a tangle of limbs. "Ah," he says, and starts to pull away, which is apparently the wrong move because then Enjolras wakes up and they're just laying there staring at each other for a really long, awkward moment before Grantaire finally extricates his limbs and manages to get out of bed.

"I'll just go and get dressed, then," he says, and flees.  
***  
Things are...awkward, to say the least. They live together, sure, but it's not like they actually talk all that much. Enjolras just does his thing and Grantaire does his own, and it works out perfectly fine for both of them.

Okay, it's awful, and Grantaire is slowly going insane and he never wants to deal with this again in his life. Enjolras is just so infuriating, constantly reminding Grantaire of his presence and leaving his things all over and staying up intil the wee hours of the morning and leaving blond hairs in the drain of the bathtub and argh, someone needs to shake this man.

Les Amis are preparing for another protest, even bigger than the last one and probably just as ill fated, which is probably why nobody's bothered to tell Grantaire where or when it is or what they'll be doing, so he tries not to think about it and pretends he's not hurt when his friends shove papers away whenever he arrives at meetings. And it's natural that there's going to be conflict between him and Enjolras eventually, Grantaire's honestly surprised they've made it this long without fighting. So something was bound to happen, it really was.

So Grantaire gets back late one night from a social engagement to find Enjolras hunched a thick packet of papers, biting his lip in the way that means he's concentrating. And Grantaire normally wouldn't say anything, and he's not entirely sure why but he does. Maybe he's just tired of feeling excluded from whatever Les Amis are planning.

"What are you doing?" he asks.

"Nothing," Enjolras says, clearly distracted.

"Doesn't look like nothing," Grantaire says and sits down on the couch.

"Protest early tomorrow morning at the harbor."

"What're you all doing?"

Enjolras gathers up his papers and holds them close to his chest. "Why does it matter?"

"You're my friends," Grantaire says. "I care about what you're doing, is it too much for me to ask what kind of things you do when I'm not there?"

He stands and rubs at his eyes with one hand. "You don't help with our protests, why should I tell you what we're doing?" Enjolras snaps. 

And yeah, okay, that's kind of true, but only because Grantaire's been busy with other things and honestly, he loves his friends, but they just can't see that this isn't going to do anything, not when there are so many other problems that need solving.

But because it's late and he's tired and a little drunk and Enjolras decided to push, Grantaire has to push back because that's what he does. "I deserve to know, don't I? Or have you all decided I'm not good enough for you?"

"If you won't help us plan these things, why does it matter to you what we do?" Enjolras repeats.

"Because I care," Grantaire shouts, and the sheer force of his frustration and anger has actually propelled him to his feet. "Because you're my friends, and I care, and I want to know what you're doing so I know if I have to prepare for one of you not coming home."

"Even if that were to happen, it would be worth it," Enjolras snaps. "We all know the risks, we've all decided that our little lives are not more important than the freedom of an entire country. It would be worth it!"

"It would never be worth it," Grantaire replies. "Not to me."

Enjolras explodes. "You don't believe in this, do you? This is all just a game to you. You don't care about freedom, this is all just some sick, twisted game. God! I was a fool to think you could ever be anything other than a useless drunkard. You don't believe in anything."

"No," Grantaire says softly.

"Then what," Enjolras says wearily, "is the point of you?"

Grantaire stops dead in his tracks and looks at Enjolras, whose eyes have suddenly gone wide. "Right," he says, unable to disguise the hurt in his voice. "I can see where we stand, then. I won't trouble you any more." He turns and walks out, ignoring Enjolras's protestations and slamming the door shut behind him. As soon as he's out of the building, he takes off at a dead sprint, not even caring where he ends up as long as it's far, far away from the other man.

He stops running when he doesn't know where he is anymore and sinks to the ground, tucking his knees into his chest and leaning back against the wall of a building. Grantaire lets out a wordless sob. No matter what he doesn, he can't get rid of the words looping in his head. Nothing more than a useless drunk. And god, it hurts, because he's pretty sure he was halfway to being in love with Enjolras, and to hear that? It's like being stabbed with a thousand ice cold shards of glass.

He can't go back home. He can't go back to the Musain. He can't see the others again. He can't face them and their well meaning concern. Because they would be concerned, he knows, but he can't accept their pity, not when they're all thinking what a waste of space he is.

You don't believe in anything! The memory of Enjolras spitting that at him replays in his mind, and he clutches at his hair. He doesn't believe in a single goddamn thing. What is the point of him if he doesn't believe in anything? Useless. Friendless. Worthless.

"No!" Grantaire shouts, and a couple of pigeons flutter away, startled by his outburst. Unbidden, memories of the Musain come back to him. Joly and Bossuet plotting some prank together. Combeferre proofreading something, so deep in concentration his glasses are slipping down his nose. Eponine leaning on the back of Courfeyrac's chair, stubbornly refusing to sit. Enjolras debating with Feuilly. Enjolras, who imbues everything he does with such passion, such will that he's like a force of nature. Enjolras, who leads without even trying, who so honestly, legitimately believes in what he does and tries to force his passion onto everyone around him. Enjolras, who is impossible not to believe in.

Enjolras is wrong. Grantaire does believe in something.

Grantaire shoves himself to his feet, not sure what he's going to do but certain that he can't just sit here. In the morning, Les Amis will be in Boston Harbor, and Grantaire needs to be there. He hasn't been a very good friend, and it's past time that he redeemed himself.  
***  
By the time he arrives at the harbor, the rest of Les Amis have already gathered in front of the docks. He doesn't see Musichetta, but he spots Eponine at the edge of the group, and he's almost certain Montparnasse is around here somewhere. Those two seem to be attacked at the hip. Up at the front of the group, Enjolras has just stepped down off a crate and is talking to COmbeferre about something. So Grantaire, it appears, has just missed what the plan is.

Excellent.

He makes his way across the plaza to stand next to Joly and Bossuet. "Morning," he mutters.

Twin expressions of shock flit across their faces. "Grantaire!" Joly exclaims. "Enjolras said you weren't coming."

"Well, he was wrong, wasn't he?" he replies. "What are we doing? I missed the, uh," he makes an expansive gesture with his hands, "Pep talk."

Bossuet nods understandingly. "That's all right. There's a new shipment of tea in from England, and the owners of the ship left it unguarded overnight. And you know we've been discussing the new taxes with tea and molasses6, and all that other stuff, and so we decided we're just going to dump all the cargo in the harbor."

Grantaire sighs. "That's the master plan? Honestly. why do I hang around you people? At least you aren't trying to dress up in ridiculous costumes as a disguise."7

Joly laughs. "That would be idiotic." He stands on his tiptoes, trying to see over the rest of the group, where Enjolras and Combeferre are deep in conversation. "Come on, are we getting started or what?"

Up in the front, Combeferre and Enjolras are still talking, and Montparnasse sidles up to Grantaire, startling him nearly out of his wits. "Good to see you here," the thief comments, adjusting the angle of his hat with one hand, the other fidgeting with the collar of his shirt. "Didn't think you'd show up, not after that spat you had with Brother Dear."

Grantaire narrows his eyes. "How'd you know about that?"

Montparnasse rolls his eyes, somehow managing to make the gesture look elegant instead of childish. "Please. You think I just let my brother wander around Boston unsupervised? I don't dislike him that much." He tips his hat. "Well. Good luck, I believe you're all getting ready to start."

"You could help," Grantaire suggests. "I'm guessing they'd welcome the help."

He laughs. "I'm a criminal. Revolution isn't suited to me. No, I think Enjolras would prefer to do this by himself, without my sullying his achievements."

Grantaire shrugs and turns back to his friends, who are both giving him odd looks. "What?" he says, and turns his attention back to Enjolras. His stomach is turning with nerves just thinking of the inevitable confrontation between them.

But just then they start moving down to the docks so Grantaire doesn't have time to think about that anymore, and someone's passing him a torch and a knife. The group splits up between the three ships evenly, Grantaire ending up with Feuilly, Bahorel, and yes, Enjolras. Well. Maybe if he just keeps to his side of the ship, they can avoid each other and nothing will even happen. This in mind, he keeps close to Feuilly and they settle into an easy rhythm, untying crates, prying them open and dumping the contents into the harbor. When Grantaire looks up after 20 minutes, a small crowd has gathered at the harbor. Some of the people are on the ships, helping to dump the goods.

He glances over to where Enjolras is talking to Bahorel as they toss crates, the two of them loud and animated, their faces lit by the flickering light of the torch. And then the last of the crates is gone and they climb off the ship, approaching the small crowd cautiously. Grantaire is acutely aware of how quickly this could all go bad, and has several escape routes planned out in his head by the time Bahorel takes a few steps towards the crowd. There's a long moment, charged with tension. Grantaire holds his breath. 

Bahorel raises a fist high over his head and lets out a wordless cry of triumph. The crowd cheers, and they're not stopping, and then Les Amis are cheering, and Grantaire is suddenly struck with the realization that this actually worked, no one's even tried to stop them. A wide smile spreads across his face, and he's almost so happy that Enjolras looming over shoulder doesn't send his heart plunging down into his stomach.

"You came back," Enjolras says. It's not a question.

"I came back," Grantaire confirms. It's not a question either.

"Why?"

Grantaire takes a moment and looks at him, really looks at him, and for the first time he doesn't see Enjolras as a god, or a king, or even a leader. He sees Enjolras, who is just a man. "I didn't do it for you," he says, and Enjolras's shoulders slump. "No, really, I didn't. I suppose that somewhere along the line, I got rather fond of you people, even though you're the biggest bunch of idiots I've ever met, I mean really, stealing a printing press and distributing handmade pamplets, what kind of fucked up idea is that?" He grins, and suddenly Enjolras's entire face lights up.

"You're the most infuriating person I've ever met," he breathes, and grabs a fistful of Grantaire's shirt, pulling him in and kissing him.

For the first time in his life, as they're kissing in the middle of a cheering, rioting crowd, Grantaire doesn't think about all the possible ways this could go wrong. He just sits back, relaxes, and lets it happen.  
***  
The next meeting, naturally, is chaos. Their membership has increased by a good five or six people, but more importantly all of Boston knows who they are now. Just after the end of the meeting, Grantaire thinks he sees various members of Les Amis handing money to Courfeyrac. 

He elbows Joly. "What's that about?"

"Hm?" Joly looks over. "Oh. There was a betting pool going on whether you and Enjolras would kill or kiss each other first. Everyone bet kill except Courfeyrac, who's made quite a lot of money, unsurprisingly." Grantaire grumbles under his breath and turns back to the front, where Enjolras is chatting with Montparnasse, who'd brought information about a number of arms dealers in Boston who'd be more than happy to supply them, should the time come.

Which, if Enjolras has any say in the matter, will be sooner rather than later.

Enjolras finishes his conversation and heads towards Grantaire and Joly. The little medical student stands and nods to Grantaire. "I should be getting home," he says. "Got to protect Bossuet from the petty thieves."

Grantaire chuckles and nods. "See you two for breakfast on Thursday, yeah?" Joly grins and heads for the door as Enjolras arrives at the table. The Musain has cleared out pretty quickly this evening. He and Enjolras are the only ones left except for Louison, who works there.

Enjolras perches on the edge of the table. "Busy tonight," Grantaire comments. "Lots of new people. You must be pleased."

"Hopefully they'll all stay, and bring their friends. We might need to find somewhere else to meet, it's getting a bit cramped in here." He glances at Grantaire. "I never really apologized for what I said before the, uh, thing last week."

Grantaire shakes his head. "You didn't say anything I didn't deserve."

"But I did," Enjolras rushes on. "I mean, I know we're," he hesitates, "something, but you're not useless, Grantaire, you're really not, you're clever and everyone loves you, and I shouldn't have said it. It was cruel and unnecessary, and I'm sorry. You don't deserve to hear that."

It doesn't make everything magically better, because of course it doesn't. But it's a start, and Grantaire will take it. 

"You never really answered my question earlier," Enjolras continues, studying Grantaire's face carefully. "Why did you come back? You don't believe in anything."

Grantaire stands and leans in to kiss Enjolras, and stops just short. "I believe in you," he whispers, and captures Enjolras's mouth with his own. Enjolras makes an amused sound against his lips.

It's not perfect, because how could it be? They're both just human. But it's good, and it's real, and it's enough.  
Footnotes  
1\. Grantaire is referencing the Stamp Act, which was basically another effort by England to ensure their monopoly over American trade. What they did was impose a tax on any paper not sold by a company backed by them (which was pretty much everything but the East India Trading Company). And how they did this was have a special stamp that denoted the paper sold by them. Understandably, this made the colonies pretty irritateds, which was why the Stamp Act was eventually repealed. Unfortunately it was a case of too little, too late, and the colonies were still pretty pissed off.

2\. Here Grantaire quotes from William Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. Which is a little ironic considering that the British soldiers don't even recognize the work of one of their own, but hey. I imagine they don't do much reading. I only chose this play for him to quote because some of the poetry is truly awful, especially with the Mechanicals. Also, I may or may not have played Hermia in a recent production. 

3\. Yes. I am referencing canon. I am truly trash. (Edit: This statement, it appears, should be applied to the entirety of this fic. Sorry about that.)

4\. Yes, coffee. During the pre-Revolution days, many colonists protested British rule by refusing to drink tea and instead drinking coffee. Not terribly important to the plot, but hey. If it wasn't trivial information that could have been better used elsewhere, this wouldn't be one of my fics.

5\. This whole thing is basically one big reference to the Boston Massacre, which was when a bunch of Bostoners started throwing snowballs and stuff at the British, and things escalated from there, and somebody got shot, so that was also Not A Good Thing, which pissed the colonies off even more. So of course Les Amis had to be sort of responsible for the whole thing in fic.

6\. Bossuet is referring to the Intolerable Acts, which were basically England's middle finger to the colonies. They taxed pretty much everything, which led to the Boston Tea Party, which pretty much led to the Revolutionary War. So yeah. That's kind of important to know about.

7\. In the real Boston Tea Party, the people all dressed up like Native Americans, which is actually really racist if you think about it, so I decided that Les Amis are far too sensible to go in for that kind of thing. So yeah, that's why that's a thing.

8\. These are now out of order. Sorry about that. I really just wanted to say that the distribution of pamphets was really common practice during this time period, which was how/why Thomas Paine's revolutionary pamphlet Common Sense got so much circulation. I totally recommend you read it, if you're in for some light economics and high treason. Yeah. That's really all I wanted to say.

**Author's Note:**

> End Notes: Oh my god, this was a journey. Nearly 12000 words of fic, my first major work in this fandom, and my first fic exchange. So yeah, sorry if it's awful and horrible and should never see the light of day. And sorry for all the historical references that had to be explained in the footnotes, although also not sorry because those were hella fun to research and write. Thanks to samyazaz for the amazing prompts, I would have loved to write all of them, and can I just say that seeing I was writing for you was one of the most intimidating experiences of my life? Yeah? There, I've said it, and that's all I've got to say for this.
> 
> Stay tuned next for utter, absolute, silence.


End file.
